


You Made A Slow Disaster Out of Me

by luciferinasundaysuit



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-24
Updated: 2012-07-24
Packaged: 2017-11-10 16:12:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/468206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luciferinasundaysuit/pseuds/luciferinasundaysuit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Adam hates nights.  The nights are always the worst.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Made A Slow Disaster Out of Me

Adam hates nights. The nights are always the worst. He's not sure whether they're better when he's alone or when he's with friends or teammates. It's a double edged sword, really. He can't bring himself to prefer lying alone in a cold bed to forcing himself to laugh and smile and flirt with pretty girls, but contrary to popular belief, he's going to wind up alone at the end of the night anyway.

In some ways, hotel beds are better than his bed at home because they at least feel transient, like it doesn't matter so much that the bed is empty because he won't be there for long. At home, he has time to notice that it's not just his bed that's empty. There's one pair of shoes by the door, one toothbrush in the bathroom, one cup of coffee on the counter. The whole place feels like something is missing, and he tries not to think about what or who that might be. 

The thing about hotel rooms, however, is that some nights when he's half asleep and reaches out to find the bed empty, he turns over and almost expects Sharpie to be there in the next bed. It's harder when it's a hotel that he stayed at with Sharpie, when his mind can provide him with an image of exactly what Sharpie would look like sprawled out next to him, when he knows whether or not there's room for two in the shower, when he can see Sharpie sitting at the desk ordering room service. At least he doesn't know for sure what Sharpie would look like spread out on his bed at home, but there are times when that fact hurts more than anything.

Adam drinks a lot. That's always been a fact. It used to be six or eight beers at a bar with Kaner close by and Sharpie pressed to his side. Now it's as many shots as he can handle by himself in his living room. He goes out sometimes; he's still Adam Burish, after all. He just prefers drinking alone, mostly because there's no one to tell him when to quit. 

He was always somewhat of an expert on alcohol, but now he's intimately familiar with the effects of each kind. He knows that Jack Daniels will have him punching walls and icing his hand at 3 in the morning. Tequila goes right to his dick, and he can't help but see Sharpie's face behind his eyes when he comes. Rum convinces him that picking up the phone is a great idea. Vodka makes him choke back tears. Jameson turns his stomach, but the pain is a decent distraction. He sticks to Crown most nights, preferring the steady state of melancholy to anything else. No matter what he's drinking, though, if he has enough, he won't dream, and that's what he's after.

He drinks until he can feel it in his bones, until he thinks he might burn up from the inside out, until his muscles ache with it. The mornings are hell, but he keeps it together enough to do his job, since that's all he has now. He tips back shot glass after shot glass, savoring the burn and the warmth it leaves in its wake. After the first few, he forgoes the glasses entirely, drinking straight from the bottle. The whisky dulls his thoughts just enough that he can let them float away. Some nights, though, they won't stay away from Sharpie. On those nights, he doesn't put the bottle down until it falls from his fingers, empty.

“I’m fine,” he tells everyone who asks. He’s pretty sure Kaner and Tazer don’t believe him after that one drunken phone call in the middle of the night, but it’s not like they’re going to get on a flight and drag him out of a bottle, although he has a feeling that they want to do just that. He’s had calls from most of the team once word got to the knitting circle. His new teammates don’t know the difference yet, but a few of them seem worried anyway. His sister knows that there’s something he’s not telling her, and he’s dreading the day when she shows up on his doorstep to demand an answer in person.

When Sharpie calls to check on him, it’s almost like breaking all over again. The last person who he wants to explain himself to is Patrick Sharp. No one can fix him, especially not the man inadvertently responsible for his pain. It was always just a buddy thing to Sharpie, something to blow off steam, something that Abby knew about and agreed to, and that’s all it was supposed to be for Adam. He just had to go and fall in love with his best friend. He can’t stand hearing Sharpie’s voice, but he’d rather hurt than never talk to him again. He just can’t win for losing.

Adam always dreads the end of the conversation, the casual “love you, buddy,” that Sharpie throws out. It’s almost enough, and that hurts worse than anything. Sharpie cares about him almost as much as Adam needs him too, but he’ll never care about him any more than that. Almost as bad as when Sharpie tells him that he misses him. Adam wants to tell him that no, he doesn’t, but he knows that’s not true. Sharpie does miss him. He misses his best friend. Adam does his best to remember that, to not blame Sharpie for the way he feels. Sharpie didn’t do anything wrong. Adam’s the idiot who decided to get involved with a married man who really only wanted his friendship.

Sometimes, he considers asking Sharpie to say that he doesn’t love him. He knows Sharpie will be confused, insist that he does love Adam, maybe miss the point on purpose, but the ugly truth is what he needs to hear. Sharpie doesn’t love him, not the way he loves Sharpie, so he needs to get the fuck over it. He tells himself that every day, usually right before he cracks open another bottle.

When he really thinks about the situation, he gets angry at himself. Sharpie gave him his friendship, and he had to go and get greedy, want more, not be satisfied with what he has. He doesn’t want to want more than Sharpie’s willing to give him, but he can’t help himself. This is all his fault. His heart has absolutely no business being broken. Then he realizes that he’s thinking in terms of broken hearts and either pushes his body harder or takes another drink, depending on the circumstances.

He’s a fucking mess. There’s really no other way to look at it. He’s spiraling out of control, and he can barely bring himself to care. He’s still playing well, and his stats are better than they were in Chicago, so he’s safe in that respect. Other than hockey, he can’t bring himself to give a damn about much of anything. He knows he’s just making it worse, that dark rooms and sad songs and empty bottles are part of the problem rather than the solution. When it comes right down to it, he owns it. He knows he’s in pieces. He knows he’s broken. That’s who he is right now. He’ll get better, in time. He’s sure of it.


End file.
